


Saturday

by TenthMuse



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Enjolras Is Bad At Communicating, Eponine is a great big sister, Established Relationship, Grantaire is Bad At Communicating, M/M, They are both terrible at Words™
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-10-11 19:44:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17453120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenthMuse/pseuds/TenthMuse
Summary: The Triumvirate get a video that should prove the corruption of the police officer who tried to arrest Enjolras, which would get Enjolras off the hook. The cop? Javert.





	1. Prologue

The rally goes bad sooner than Enjolras had expected it to.

Fists begin to fly, elbows jab, confusion sprouts in all corners.

And it's not long before the sirens join the fray.

There's a man behind him—brown hair, purple jacket, and—

Enjolras goes down.

At the level of the feet, it's worse. He stands again. Can't find anything to focus on.

A misplaced foot lands solidly on his stomach.

Enjolras pulls himself back up, just in time to see the man in the purple jacket approaching again.

The man's face is screwed up, and he’s focused only on Enjolras despite the melee around them. "The NRA protects our _constitutional rights_ ," he growls. His fist comes up again.

But Enjolras is faster, and the man in the purple jacket grunts, and it's his turn to go down.

In the space vacated by the purple jacket, Enjolras makes eye contact with a cop. " _Shit_ ," he groans.

Then he's running, with the officer in pursuit.

"The law is _not mocked!_ " the cop shouts after him. "You are under arrest for the assault of that young man. _Stop running!_ "

But he doesn't.


	2. Part I

The man in the red ball cap is eyeing her, trying not to look like he is.

Eponine stubs out her cigarette thoughtfully, eyes him right back. Then she pushes off the wall and stalks through the great glass doors of downtrodden mall, watches over her shoulder to see if he follows.

He does.

She goes to a bench, just at the edge of the food court, and he joins her not a moment later.

"Do you have the time?" he asks. The ball cap hides his face. "I just got in, and my watch is still set back home, I'm afraid."

She looks straight ahead, fumbles through her bag like she's looking for something. "It's just after noon." It's well past four.

He nods, fiddles with his watch. "Were you followed?"

"No," she says. She is sure of that, but she looks around anyway, casually. The food court is busy, but not too busy, and the kiosks are all out of hearing distance. There are some men loitering outside the Sneaker Shakk, also out of hearing distance. The passersby stay away from the bench. "How many of you are there?"

"Enough." His posture is too relaxed, his eyes wandering too easily. He's good at this.

Her teeth grind together. "Can you do it?" she asks.

He slips—he looks her right in the eye. He looks away quickly, but it's enough that she catches the glimpse of triumph, downright pride in his expression. "Saturday afternoon. Three o'clock. Right here. Can you bring all of the packages at once?"

Eponine thinks it over, cold, calculating. "If we're fast."

"Then we'll see you then," the man tells her.

She nods, relief washing over her, and zips her bag closed. "Thank you." She stands. "Thank you," she says again.

"Until Saturday," he answers.

She walks away, never even gets his name, and it's better that way.

 

* * *

 

The lights are off when Enjolras gets back, and Grantaire's stockinged feet are clearly visible on the couch; he's snoring.

Enjolras softens, hangs up his keys, watches him for a moment. Then he goes to him, rests a hand on his chest. "R," he whispers. " _Grantaire_."

Grantaire stirs, lets out a groan. "Wha…?"

"We have proof," Enjolras says, tightens his grip on the jump drive he's holding in his other hand.

Grantaire sits up, runs a hand through his disheveled hair. "Apollo," he begins, clears his throat, starts again. "You're going to have to—I'm too—I just fucking woke up. _You_ just woke me up."

"Look." Enjolras holds out the drive. "It has a video. A video of one of the cops meeting with—"

"Are we talking about the corrupt cops thing?" Grantaire interrupts. His hair falls back into his eyes, and he pushes it back again.

"What? Oh, yes. Yeah." Enjolras grimaces. "Though, the fact that we even have to—"

Grantaire puts a hand over his mouth; the gesture is sloppy, but he just woke up and doesn't care. "Who did he meet with?"

Enjolras casts a pointed look down at Grantaire's hand, over his mouth. When he doesn't move it, Enjolras sticks his tongue out and licksit.

The hand jerks back. "That's disgusting."

Enjolras rolls his eyes. "Oh, so when it's in your _mouth_ , it's fine, but when it's—"

" _Who did he meet with?_ "

"Right," Enjolras says. "Eponine Thénardier."

Grantaire looks at him, expression blank. "Who?"

"Thénardier," Enjolras repeats. "She’s the daughter, the oldest one, I think."

His expression turns skeptical. "You mean the Thénardier crime family Thénardiers?"

"No, the Thénardiers from the hit childrens' television show," Enjolras deadpans.

Grantaire frowns at him. "Sarcasm. That's my thing." A pause. "Why would the cop be stupid enough to meet in public?" He narrows his eyes. "Better question. _Why_ were _you_ somewhere you could _see_ this?"

"I wasn't," Enjolras answers. "I mean. I was, but—"

"Enjolras."

"Sorry. Yeah. I was—"

"Deep breath."

So he takes a deep breath, gathers his thoughts before he goes on. "Courfeyrac was looking for sneakers. A new edition of the ones he's collecting came out—"

"Since when does Courfeyrac collect sneakers?" Grantaire asks.

"Since today." Enjolras shrugs. "So Combeferre and I were waiting for him, outside the store. And the cop from that rally walked by, so we were, you know, ready to go—"

Grantaire shivers, can't help it, remembering the way Enjolras had almost gotten himself fucking _arrested_ , how scared he'd been, glimpsing that life without Enjolras, a life of darkness, filled with drunken stupors—

He presses into Enjolras, puts his head on his shoulder, making like he's still groggy; Enjolras leans into him, but he keeps talking.

"—then, of all people, _Eponine Thénardier_ walked by, and Combeferre was about ready to start shitting himself, but then they sat down together and talked for seven minutes and forty-six seconds—"

"That is an _oddly_ specific time—"

"Shut up," Enjolras tells him, then gestures at the jump drive. "It's how long the video is."

Grantaire nods, not moving his head away from Enjolras’s shoulder.

"So they talked, I pulled out my phone, started recording, and—R, we have _proof_ now." Enjolras is beaming, that smile he only ever gets when he's talking about large-scale reforms most people would call straight up revolutions.

"That's great," Grantaire says, and he means it. "That's great for the—" A thought occurs to him, and he pulls away so that he can look Enjolras in the eye. "What are you going to do with it?"

 

* * *

 

Azelma meets her at the corner when she gets back, well into the evening. "How did it go?" she whispers, falling into step beside Eponine.

"Saturday," she says by way of answer. "Six o'clock, at the mall. We're all going."

Azelma comes to a stop, her grin so wide she can't contain it. "Really?" she demands. "Eponine, don't joke about this—please, don't—"

"I wouldn't," she cuts her off, hurrying back the few steps so that she can shush her. "You can't say anything to Gav yet. He won't be able to keep his mouth shut."

She nods, presses her lips together to keep from speaking.

Eponine jerks her chin toward the inn. "Are they waiting?"

Azelma nods again. "You're late," is all she says.

Eponine sighs. "I know." She hesitates. "I'm sorry. For whatever they did."

Azelma shrugs. It's nothing new for her, and they both know that. "Saturday, you said?"

"Saturday," Eponine echoes. The word is like candy on her tongue, sweet and full of promise. But until then…

Azelma nudges her with her shoulder. "Okay?"

Eponine takes a breath in. Shoulders back. Steels herself. "It'll be fine."

It's a lie.

 

* * *

 

The Musain is particularly busy this Thursday night, but the door to the backroom is latched, and the chatter outside drowns out their voices. Enjolras stands at the head of the room, Courfeyrac and Combeferre at either side, holding himself steady against Marius's objections.

"But if it becomes a matter of defending ourselves against a revenge vendetta," Marius is objecting, "we've really got no ground to stand on—"

Courfeyrac jumps in on the defense, asking, "But wouldn't we be able to spin it around on them? Make them justify going after Enjolras in the first place?"

Marius scoffs. "Why would they ever do that? They'd never fall for it, and it's not like there's video of _that_. _Plus_ , it's nothing but a strawman argument, besides—"

Combeferre shakes his head. "It's a valid direction to take things nonetheless," he argues.

"Even if it does come off like a strawman, they started this," Courfeyrac adds. "Do un to others, and all that?"

Marius doesn't look at all convinced, but Enjolras finally interjects, refocuses the conversation. "Are we in agreement, at least, that the video should be taken to the police station?" Then, more pointedly, he adds, "The matter of the public's reception of the gesture aside."

There are nods from the heads around the table, save Grantaire's; he's too busy glaring at his bottle.

"Then," Enjolras goes on, leaning forward onto the table, bracing himself, "who is to bring it there?"

Combeferre clears his throat, looking uncharacteristically tentative, yet he speaks nonetheless. "You?" he offers. "You did capture it, after all."

Joly hums his agreement. "Your glory and all."

Enjolras colors, embarassed. "That hardly seems fair—or democratic. Someone else should be allowed the chance—"

"It's a risk," Combeferre interrupts, removing his glasses. He wipes the glasses on his shirt, like the distinguished gentleman he one day will be, then replaces on his face. "It's a risk," he says again, "that we can't ask any member of the group to take."

There is silence in the room.

Combeferre watches Enjolras's face, then checks those of the room at large. He doesn't bother looking to Grantaire's corner. "A vote, then. Yeas and nays."

Murmurs of assent.

"All in favor of Enjolras taking the video?" Combeferre asks.

A resounding chorus of _yea_.

Combeferre's face changes, gets harder to read. "Opposing?"

Silence, except for the sound of Grantaire's bottle hitting the table; it is a frustrated sound.

Enjolras jerks his chin. "That's settled then," he says.

Grantaire sighs, loudly. Then he clears his throat, pointedly.

Enjolras's attention is captured, and their eyes meet. Something unspoken passes between them. "Do you have something to add, Grantaire?" he asks. "You've been _awfully_ quiet tonight."

Grantaire smirks, only slightly drunk. "Nothing to add," he answers. "Only something to declare."

"And that would be…?" Enjolras gestures for him to elaborate.

"I'm siding with Marius," Grantaire announces.

Marius looks, understandably, taken aback.

Grantaire snorts at his expression. "Don't get used to it."

Enjolras appraises him, genuinely interested it seems. "Why?" he asks.

Grantaire shrugs. "Cop tries to arrest you for what looks to him like you punching a guy out for no reason after stirring up the crowd—inciting violence, maybe, if he were to get his way—then you get it in your head that the cop _must_ be corrupt if he's trying to arrest you for that. So you follow him around—"

Enjolras opens his mouth. "—we were not _following_ him—"

"—until you get incriminating footage of him, which you then use to _blackmail_ him—"

"—nobody said anything about blackmail—"  
"—and you expect the public to side with _you_?" Graintaire pauses a moment, for dramatic flair, then sits back down.

"You're drunk," Enjolras says.

"You're naive," Grantaire retorts. Then he adds, "And I'm only a little bit drunk. You're a lot naive."

Enjolras glowers at him. And it's the glower that means he has an impassioned speech about the _rights of humanity_ on its way—

"If it is _naiveté_ that lets me believe people are inherently biased toward the view of the honest man—"

"Did you _see_ what happened to the U.S. in 2016?" Grantaire cuts in. "Were those people biased toward _the honest man_?"

And that gets a chuckle out of the room, which serves to draw Enjolras's attention. He looks around, appraises the room as a whole. "But we digress from the matter at hand," he concludes.

"No shit," Courfeyrac mutters.

Grantaire takes another swig from his bottle. "We aren't done, Apollo."

And Enjolras looks him in the eye. "I know."

Then the meeting recommences, digressions forgotten.

 

* * *

 

Combeferre catches him after the meeting, while everyone is dispelling, and he has that look about him that tells Enjolras he won't necessarily like what's coming. "Do you have a second?" he asks. "It's about the video."

So Enjolras nods. He catches Grantaire's eye, then gestures toward the door, holds up five fingers twice. And after he gets Grantaire's nod of understanding, he follows Combeferre out of the Musain. "You think this is a bad idea?" Enjolras asks.

"No," Combeferre says by way of dismissal. "I think it's a good idea."

Enjolras furrows his brow. "Then what?"

"Any one of us could take the video in," Combeferre points out. "It doesn't have to be you. And, frankly, I'm surprised nobody objected."

"So?" Enjolras asks, has a feeling he knows where this is going.

" _So_ ," Combeferre goes on, "you're the only one with an outstanding arrest. You're the only one this would be risky for."

"We already decided—"

But Combeferre cuts him off. "I didn't say you shouldn't do it."

Enjolras frowns, confused. "Then what are you saying?"

Combeferre hesitates. "We haven't gotten much publicity lately," he hedges.

"No," Enjolras agrees. "And I know it's been making it hard to get the word out, but I have a few ideas—"

"Enjolras, this _is_ an idea." Even as he says it, Combeferre seems unsure of himself. "If you wear a camera, or even just a microphone—"

Enjolras's eyes go wide as he realizes. "The publicity if I get arrested…"

"Exactly." Combeferre nods. "We'd go from a few followers to an actual following."

Enjolras looks away, considers, looks back. "I'm not going to _try_ to get arrested," he finally says.

"No," Combeferre agrees. "And I don't want you to do anything you're not comfortable with—"

Enjolras shakes his head. "I'm fine doing this."

"But now you know why I didn't say something inside." Combeferre sticks his hands into his pockets.

"So it has to be me then," Enjolras decides.

Combeferre's expression turns worried, startlingly earnest. "I'd do it if I could," he hurries to add. "I don't like you taking the risk anymore than anyone else does."

"I don't think it's occurred to anyone else yet," Enjolras points out, shifts in the cold.

"No," Combeferre agrees. "But it will."

Enjolras frowns. "R won't like it. He already doesn't like it."

Combeferre grimaces, offers what is probably supposed to be a reassuring shrug. "He'll come around. Or makes his peace with it. One way or another."

"I know," Enjolras replies. "I know. Sometimes I wish…"

"That you saw more eye-to-eye?" Combeferre suggests.

Enjolras nods. "Sometimes," he emphasizes. "But he wouldn't be the person he is if he didn't disagree with every stance I take. And I—It's the _person_ I—" He cuts himself off, because it just feels too intimate to say out loud.

But Combeferre seems to know where the sentence was going to end anyway, nods his understanding.

Grantaire himself exits the Musain then, Courfeyrac following closely behind, which effectively breaks up the conversation.

"Right then," Combeferre says, ducks his head in farewell. "See you soon then."


	3. Part II

Eponine waits up for Gavroche to get back, scolds him for staying out so late, and ushers him into bed. (She doesn't mention that is _her_ who has to explain his absence when he sneaks out to these meetings.)

"How was it?" she asks, while she's getting him settled.

He smiles at her, and he looks like the eleven-year-old he is. "Enjolras fought with Grantaire again," he answers with a yawn.

She smiles back at him, ignores the ache in her shoulder. "Anything _new_ happen?"

He shrugs, but the gesture is hidden by the blankets. "Courfeyrac got new sneakers, I think," he answers.

And something in his inflection makes Eponine's chest flare with warmth. "You think highly of those guys, hmm?"

"They're _revolutionaries_ ," Gavroche says, like that answers everything.

"Gav," she says, warning in her voice.

And he rolls his eyes in that way only a preteen can. "I know, I _know_ ," he groans. "Revolutionaries are better off keeping their heads down, because at least they get to keep their heads, blah, blah, blah. Eponine, you are a _buzzkill_."

And that's just how Eponine likes it, so she smirks. "I aspire to be a buzzkill."

"Enjolras is going to 'fight the man' soon," he informs her, just to be contrary.

And he's getting riled up, not relaxed, but Eponine can't help herself. "Oh?" she asks. "How so?"

"He got a video of the cop who tried to arrest him," he tells her, curling around his pillow. "He was meeting with someone bad. They think he's corrupt."

_That_ gets Eponine's attention. "A corrupt cop, huh?" she asks. Her voice is light, but her stomach flips. She can't afford to have doubts now. "How does Enjolras know the cop is corrupt?" She hesitates. "Did he say which one?"

Gavroche, despite himself, actually looks sleepy now. "Dunno," he mumbles. "I was stealing Courfeyrac's wallet while they talked about that."

Eponine frowns her _I-will-not-take-your-bullshit_ frown. "Did you give it back?" she asks.

Gavroche just grins at her, so she sighs, ruffles his hair. "G'night, Gav."

"Night," he answers.

 

* * *

 

 

Eponine waits for Azelma's breathing to even and for Gavroche to start to snore, then she waits some more for the noises downstairs to quiet—for her parents to fall asleep—then slips from her bed to the window, avoiding the creaking floorboard with practiced ease. She touches her pocket, making sure Courfeyrac's wallet is secure, then her chest, making sure the book is secure behind her shirt.

The night air is cool, but it isn't unpleasant after the stuffiness of the attic, and she lowers the window behind herself carefully. Then she lowers herself, using the gutter spout for leverage.

When she hits the ground, she reaches into her shirt, removes the book, and tucks it under her arm, then double checks the wallet. All good.

Marius is waiting for her when she arrives, and he greets her with a smile.

She greets him by handing him Courfeyrac's wallet, then the book.

"What's this?" Marius asks, holding the wallet awkwardly.

Eponine shrugs. "Gav took it. It's Courfeyrac's. Give it back to him?"

Marius pockets it. "Sure," he says. Then he takes his bag from his shoulder, fishes around for the other book.

She watches him in the moonlight, the way it hits his cheekbones just so, how his hair dances around his ears—

He offers her the book.

Eponine does not take the book. "Thank you," she says instead. Her voice does not betray her regret. "For everything."

"Don't you want…?" he falters, his hand still outstretched, still offering.

She shakes her head, steps back. "No. Not this time."

"It's about history—Russian history," Marius tries again.

"It's not the topic," Eponine tells him, steps back again. "I'll see you around, yeah?"

" 'Ponine?" Marius asks, and the confusion blooms clear on his face.

But she's already walking away.

His shoulders deflate. "Next week then?"

She doesn't answer, doesn't turn around, doesn't tell him that there won't _be_ a next week for them, doesn't so much as wave, and she feels guilty. But he doesn't call out again, and he doesn't come after her, and she doesn't feel too guilty, because she knew he wouldn't.

Once she's back at the gutter spout, she takes a moment and cries, mourns what could have been. By the time her tears dry, her mind has cleared.

Saturday. Two days.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire wakes to only a mild headache, which is just about what he expected, and to the sound of pans clattering in the kitchen and the smell of coffee.

Enjolras smiles, a little guilty looking, when he comes in. "Did I wake you up?" he asks. "I didn't mean to—"

Grantaire shakes his head, goes to the coffee pot, and, _yes_ , there _is_ coffee in there—

"Here," Enjolras says, handing him a cup already made up. "That pot is still brewing."

Grantaire takes the cup. It's still warm, and what remains of his hangover seems to slip away with every sip. "What are you making?" he asks, because it's better than starting the conversation that's going to come later.

"Eggs?" Enjolras answers. "I'm not sure which kind though."

"Apollo," Grantaire says, "I am not awake enough for this shit, and this is really becoming a theme of our conversations, and I'm also not awake enough to figure out what that means, so, once more, what are you making?"

Enjolras blinks at him. "They _started_ as omelettes," he answers in a gush, "but I tried to flip them, and—" He shrugs, gestures to the pan. "Scrambled?"

Grantaire shrugs. "Scrambled is good." And it feels just a little stilted, because they both know what's coming.

Enjolras fidgets with the stovetop knobs, turns the heat down until it's almost off. "Can I ask you something?"

"You just did," Grantaire answers. He pauses, decides not to start that way, because he can be a mature grownup sometimes. "But that's not what you meant."

"No," Enjolras agrees. He moves beside Grantaire, who's still blocking the coffee pot, and pours himself a fresh cup of coffee. They lean against the counter together. "Last night," he says. "What do you think?"

Grantaire frowns, considers. "Do you maybe mean the part when you looked very pretty?" He bats his eyelashes.

Enjolras isn't fazed. "Flattery gets you nowhere," he finally says.

"Well," Grantaire says. "Then, fuck. I don't know what you want me to say, really. I hated it. Hate it. The very idea of it."

"Vehemently," Enjolras agrees. A pause. "I just…I wondered if that had changed. In the light of day, I mean."

"You mean because I'm not drunk now?" Grantaire asks. And it's mean, like it sounds, but that's just how it is.

"I didn't say—"

"You meant it." But Grantaire relaxes, deflates, and Enjolras comes off the defensive. "I don't like it," he says again.

The coffee is still too hot, but Enjolras chugs it down. "Tell me why," he says.

Grantaire eyes him a moment, looks away, looks back. His gaze settles on the floor, near his feet because his feet are easier to talk to. "If you walk in there, right into the police station," he says, "Apollo, they're not going to take your word over one of their own guys—you get that right? They're not going to listen to a word you say—"

"But it's not my _word_ , R, it's a _video_ —"

"The same thing," Grantaire cuts him off. "For all you know, they were strangers chatting about the weather, and the cop had no idea who he was talking to—"

"Like hell he did," Enjolras interjects.

Grantaire shrugs. "I'm just saying. They can spin it around any way they want, if they decide to."

"What if they don't?" Enjolras challenges him. "What if they're moral, upstanding people?"

"Bullshit," Grantaire answers.

Enjolras sighs. "Grantaire," he says, and his tone quite clearly implies that he's not buying into this. "What's it really about?"

Grantaire looks back up, right at him, and his expression is earnest. "I don't know what I'd do if they take you," he admits. And the words are out now, so he goes on. "I mean, _fuck_ , I know it's selfish and all, and I know I don't deserve you, and there's no universe in which this is all—"

"Grantaire," Enjolras says again, more forcefully, and his hands, devoid of the cup, come to Grantaire's elbows, holding him steady. "Look at me."

He does.

"I'm going to walk in." Enjolras says the words slowly, reassuringly. "I'm going to ask to talk to the chief, or whoever I should talk to. I'm going to show him the video. I'm going to walk out. We'll put a meeting together, post something on the blog about the corruption in the police force, how we can't tolerate it anymore, let the local news take it from there—you know how it goes. Then it'll be over."

Grantaire doesn't say anything.

"This is a big deal, R," Enjolras goes on. "A big, _big_ deal. Exposing corruption like this—"

"You're not a fucking journalist, Apollo," Grantaire spits out. "You're a _student_. You're a _fucking law student_. Why the _hell_ do you have to get involved? Why the _fuck_ do you think it has to be you?"

Enjolras frowns, cocks his head. "Because who else is going to do it?"

" _Anyone_ , Apollo," Grantaire cries, exasperated. He tears himself out of Enjolras's grip, moves across the kitchen. "Anyone other than you. Anyone who doesn't have a record. You don't have to risk yourself—"

"I'm not _risking_ anything—" But he stops when he sees the look on Grantaire's face. "What?"

"Are you that _blind_?" Grantaire demands.

Enjolras pauses. "I don't follow—"

" _Fuck_ , of course you don't." Grantaire sighs, annoyed by both himself and Enjolras. "Just—"

But a knock sounds at the door.

"Are you expecting someone?" Enjolras asks, cocking his head.

"No," Grantaire answers.

They stand for a moment, facing each other now, each riled up just a hair too much. They watch each other.

"I'll see who it is," Enjolras says, breaking the silence of the moment.

"Okay," Grantaire answers. But before Enjolras goes, he reaches out, touches his wrist.

And Enjolras nods, because he understands. Then he goes from the kitchen to the door, pops it opened.

Gladys, their neighbor from three doors down is there on the other side, her perpetually worried expression even more pronounced than usual. "Afternoon," she says, without waiting for Enjolras to greet her. "There's a telemarketer around," she tells him. "He's going up and down the halls, I think."

Enjolras frowns. "What?"

"A telemarketer," Gladys repeats. "I just wanted to let you boys know, in case—you know, in case he shows up."

"In case the…telemarketer shows up?" Enjolras checks.

Gladys scowls at him. "Don't you be mocking me, boy. I can hear it in that young voice of yours."

"I'm not," Enjolras assures her, frowning at the very thought of it. "It's just—telemarketers are only on the phone. They won't actually show up in the building."

Her scowl becomes more severe. "Are you saying I'm wrong, boy? I'm trying to do you a _favor_ , and this is what I get?" She shakes her head, disappointed. "This new generation, I just don't know about you all."

Enjolras's face gets that pre-impassioned-speech look about it, and even Gladys knows him well enough to cut him off.

"I know," she says. She pats his face. "You two are nice, because you try to be." Pauses, considers. "You might even be kind, one day."

And with that, she turns and heads back down the hall.

Enjolras closes his mouth, then he closes the door. "R," he calls, heading back to the kitchen.

"What?" Grantaire answers, voice echoing a little.

Enjolras renters the kitchen. "Gladys scares me."

So they laugh a little, finish breakfast, let the day get on with itself. The harsh words aren't forgotten, but they don't resurface yet.


	4. Part III

They hold an informal meeting in their living room that afternoon, and there's pizza.

"What the fuck," Grantaire asks, returning from the kitchen and balancing six cups of water, when he sees the mess across the floor, "is that?"

Courfeyrac grins toothily, spreads his arms wide. " _Spy_ equipment," he answers.

He's too excited for his own good, Grantaire decides, so he doesn't engage any further. Enjolras is already conferring with him anyway, apparently engaged in some sort of conversation about what appears to be a microphone, which makes sense seeing as he's the one who will be wearing it—and that makes Grantaire a little sick, so he glances around the room, hoping for a distraction.

So he focuses on handing out the waters he brought with him, avoiding prolonged conversation with each of them until he gets to Combeferre, who, interestingly enough, isn't involved in the spy equipment conversation.

Grantaire hands Combeferre his water, and he thanks him, looking just as awkward and out of place as Grantaire is feeling.

Grantaire likes Combeferre. Combeferre is quiet. He wears glasses. Combeferre is rational.

"Thank you," Combeferre say to him again, seemingly at a loss for what else to say, gesturing first to the water, then to the pizza, the space, "for letting us meet here."

Grantaire shrugs. "It's not _just_ my place."

"Still though," Combeferre says, and he smiles, just a little.

Then there's an awkward pause.

"I find it…intriguing," Combeferre finally says, breaking the silence, "that you guys can disagree so…so _passionately_ about—about—"

"Everything?" Grantaire offers, with just a little too much bite, then takes a sip of his drink. He's disappointed to remember it's just water.

Combeferre raises his own cup in a gesture of agreement. "Yet you two _live_ together, and it…works. Somehow." His brow is furrowed, like their personal life is confusing him.

And Grantaire looks over to where Enjolras is hunched over Courfeyrac's toys, thinks about their rather uncivil discussion that morning, decides to change the topic. "So what is all of—of that?" he asks, waving at the mass of wires across his living room floor.

Combeferre shrugs, takes a sip from his water. "Courf calls it his spy equipment."

"So I've heard," Grantaire answers. Then he asks, "Is it from Radio Shack?" because he can't help himself.

Combeferre frowns at him. "No," he says. "They closed eons ago."

"Amazon?" Grantaire tries.

Combeferre nods. "Microphones, mostly. I can't imagine they'll end up using all of them. And there's a camera or two, I think. And an invisible pen. Oh, and earpieces. Between you and me, I think Courf has delusions of Bond-eur."

Which makes Grantaire snort his water, which makes him choke, which draws the attention of both Courfeyrac and Enjolras.

"Are you laughing at us?" Courfeyrac demands.

Grantaire recovers himself, still red in the face. "I would never dream of it," he assures Courfeyrac.

Enjolras narrows his eyes at him, but Grantaire pretends he doesn't notice. Instead, he just mouths _telemarketer_ , which makes Enjolras crack a smile. Then a laugh. Then he downright loses his shit, looking only a tad hysterical.

And something about watching their illustrious leader keel over makes someone else gag on _their_ drink, but Grantaire doesn't look, because he's too busy watching just how _red_ Enjolras has turned—

Combeferre looks more than a little amused. "What did you say?" he asks. "What did you say to him?"

But Grantaire doesn't say a word.

Finally, Enjolras stands, face still red, and calls the meeting to order. They have a timeline to set, after all. Decisions about exactly _when_ Enjolras will take the video in and get himself arrested.

Grantaire sighs, sits himself down on the floor where he is because they don't really have the seating capacity for this, and it's inevitable, then pretends he's ready to listen to them hash this out.

Ultimately, they decide to send Enjolras tomorrow afternoon. (They also decide not to use Courfeyrac's spy equipment, which disappoints Courfeyrac, but is probably for the best.)

Saturday afternoon.

 

* * *

 

The meeting peters out a few hours later, the people trickle out an hour after that, and then they're alone.

Enjolras closes the door on Combeferre, sinks against it. He holds himself there, just on the verge of collapse for a moment, before he realizes Grantaire is there.

"R," he says. His eyes are scared. "Grantaire, I—" He takes a breath in. Holds it. Breathes out. And the mask is back. "Sorry. I shouldn't have—I'm okay."

"No, you're not," Grantaire says. And it's simple.

Enjolras just looks at him for a long, long moment. "No."

"Let's clean up," Grantaire suggests.

"Okay." Enjolras follows him into the living room, which looks like a young tornado has passed through while throwing a tantrum.

They bag the pizza boxes. They recycle the cups. They rinse the cutlery. They take out the trash. They vacuum.

They finish, but Enjolras still has that look about him, and Grantaire doesn't know what to do.

"Laundry?" he offers.

Enjolras just _looks_ at him, like he didn't hear him.

So Grantaire offers again. "We could—laundry."

"I don't want to do this to you," Enjolras says instead.

Grantaire deflects like the master he is. "Aww, c'mon, it's not that bad. It's just dividing the lights from the darks, a little detergent…"

Enjolras lets him peter out. "You're right. I know you are."

That hurts. _Fuck_ , that hurts— "Yeah, of course. Laundry is easy like that."

"Gran _taire_ ," Enjolras growls, practically barreling into him. "Would you _stop_ for _half_ of a—"

" _What do you want me to say, Apollo?_ " Grantaire throws him back off, steps away, and this was bound to happen, because they didn't really finish this morning, not really. "What do you want me to do? You're running off like— _fuck_ , I don't know—"

Enjolras's face is red. "I _have_ to—"

" _Bullshit!_ " His hands come up to his head, pulling at his hair. "You don't _have_ to—you're _choosing_ to—"

"Because I _have_ to, for the good o—"

" _What if they arrest you?_ "

Enjolras stops. Watches him. "Is that what this is about?" he asks.

Grantaire doesn't say anything.

"R," Enjolras says. "Grantaire." He looks a little lost, because he's not sure which words to use, and Grantaire is the only one who can do that to him, and— "What do you need me to say?"

But Grantaire doesn't answer, so Enjolras sighs, long a low, leans back against the counter. "They won't—"

"Why not?" Grantaire challenges him. "You fucking _evaded arrest_ after that fucking rally, so what's to stop them catching up now?"

"I—"

"Don't," Grantaire says. "Don't say it'll all be fine and dandy and the unicorns will shit rainbows, because you _can't_ say that, Apollo, you _can't_ —"

"Then I won't!" Enjolras cuts him off. "But what do you want me to say then?"

"Let Combeferre take it," Grantaire suggests, knows it won't work. "Or Courfeyrac. Hell, even Joly—or Marius would _love_ to, you know he would—"

But Enjolras isn't biting. "I won't let any of them put their face to this," he says.

"I'll do it," Grantaire offers, desperate.

"No," Enjolras says, decisive. "Absolutely not."

"Why the fuck not?" And being contrary is something Grantaire is good at. " _I_ don't have an outstanding warrant for my _fucking arrest_ , Apollo. This isn't the time to be _noble_ —"

"Of course it isn't—"

"Then let someone else do it," Grantaire says. Challenges. Demands.

Enjolras shakes his head. "No," he says.

And then Grantaire gets it. And it hurts, deep inside, somewhere dark. "Is this about making a statement?" he asks, incredulous, a little sick. "Are you _hoping_ they'll _arrest_ you so that you can make _a fucking statement_?"

Enjolras doesn't refute it.

And Grantaire doesn't really know what to do with that. "You would do that?" he finally asks.

"I woul—"

"To me?" he finishes.

For a moment, Enjolras doesn't say anything. Then, "That's not what this is about, R."

"Really?" Grantaire demands. " _Really_? Because it sure feels like that's what this is about."

"You don't think you're still being a little selfish?" Enjolras asks, comes away from the counter, and maybe it's too far, but—

Grantaire's face darkens. "Let's not go _there_ again."

And Enjolras deflates, and the tension goes out of him. "What do you want me to say? The cause—"

"To hell with the _cause_." Grantaire moves a step closer. "What about _us_? What about _me_? What am I supposed to do? Did you consider that?"

Enjolras takes in a breath.

"Did you think about what would happen to _me_ if you get yourself arrested _to make a fucking point_ , Enjolras? _Did you_?"

Enjolras opens his mouth. Closes it. "Grantaire," he says, lost. "It wouldn't be for long, no matter which way it goes. You'd be okay—"

"Bullshit," Grantaire answers. "Fucking _bullshit_."

Enjolras looks down, leans back against the counter because he can't stand by himself anymore. "I don't want to hurt you," he says. "Grantaire, you mean more to me than any cause. I swear it." He looks up. "I won't do this if it will hurt you."

Grantaire sighs, because that's not what he wanted, not really.

"Grantaire, if it's really—" Enjolras takes in a breath. "I didn't realize—" He shakes his head. "I won't. I'll figure something out."

And Grantaire shakes his head. "No," he says, and he's crumbling just a little. "No," he says again. "That's not what I mean."

Enjolras tilts his head. "Then what—"

"I just—" Grantaire sighs, because he's not really sure how that sentence ends. "I just want you to _think_ about that, I think. To—to think about what it would—"

"About you," Enjolras finishes.

Grantaire is silent.

"Oh," Enjolras says, and it's quiet. "I called _you_ selfish," he realizes.

Grantaire nods. "You did."

"I'm sorry," Enjolras says, finally catches his eyes. "I'm so sorry. I was so caught up in it that I didn't even stop to think—"

"I know," Grantaire says. Then he crosses the kitchen, comes into Enjolras personal space. "You believe in this, so I want you to do it," he says, and he's close enough that Enjolras would be able to tell if he were lying, which he isn't. "I think it's stupid of you. I think it's very, very stupid of you. But I knew you were going to do things I think are stupid when I signed up for this. You and me, I mean."

Enjolras lets out a long, slow breath, and it tickles Grantaire's face. "Do you mean that?" he asks, giving him the out.

"Of course I do," Grantaire answers. "It's one of the many, _many_ things about you that drives me mad. And yet."

"And yet?" Enjolras echoes him, almost teasing him.

Grantaire finds himself grinning. "And yet, here I am. As infatuated and obsessed and—dare I say?— in love as ever."

"I'll work on it," Enjolras says. "I promise."

Grantaire nods, comes a little closer. " _We'll_ work on communicating."

And Enjolras kisses him, because he just doesn't have the words.

 

* * *

 

Azelma comes hurrying into the kitchen, eyes a little frantic. "It's a slow night," is all she says.

Eponine nods, cuts the dough she's kneading in half. "I could use some help," she answers.

They knead in silence for a little while, then Eponine asks, "How bad is it?"

"It's okay," Azelma replies. "Not the worst, not the best."

Eponine kneads a little harder. "Did they _do_ anything yet?"

Azelma shakes her head. "I sent Gav to fold the washing. There's a lot of it, so it should take him awhile."

"That's not _okay_ ," Eponine admonishes, gently. She frowns. "Did they hit you again?"

"Not yet," Azelma grumbles. She stops kneading, contemplates the dough. "This doesn't need any more kneading."

Eponine eyes her. "Here, take mine. Double check it." A pause. "And don't start anything. Not tonight. Not right now."

"But—"

"If we piss them off now, Saturday will only be harder," Eponine cuts her off. "I'm going to go grab some more vegetables, if there's anything fresh left. Finish kneading the dough, then help me with the salads, yeah?"

She doesn't give Azelma the opportunity to argue.

When she gets back, they slice and dice in silence.

They get a couple of orders, but nothing they can't easily keep up with. They work in silence, mostly.

"Here," Azelma says, passes her a cutting-board covered in neatly diced tomato.

"Thanks," Eponine answers. She's sliding the tomato bits into the larger bowl of salad they have going when the kitchen door slams open; that alone tells her it's not Gavroche, which means—

" _There_ ya are!" Madame Thénardier cries, quite clearly put out. "I've been looking everywhere!"

They freeze.

"Azelma," she barks. "To the front."

When Azelma doesn't move, her voice gets worryingly sweet. "Now, please, dear."

Azelma still doesn't move, which kicks Eponine's heart into gear.

"Go," Eponine whispers. "Don't make trouble."

Madame Thénardier's eyes narrow. "For once, you should listen to your piece of filth sister. She knows what she's talking about."

Eponine looks down, doesn't say a word. Remembers when they were little, when it was her and Azelma on the floor by the fireplace with the dolls. Before the man came for Cosette. Before their father decided they should fill in for her _in her absence, as she'll be back, don't you worry_. Before the conmen and thieves showed up in their basement.

"Well?" Madame Thénardier prompts Azelma.

She doesn't move. "I'm helping Eponine," she says.

Madame Thénardier sighs. "Would you be more receptive if your father asked you?"

Azelma swallows, then repeats herself. "I'm helping Eponine." She suddenly seems very small.

"Suit yourself," their mother says, and her voice is filled with warning. "I'll send him in then."

As soon as she's gone, Eponine spins around. "What the _hell_ , Azelma?" she demands. "Are you _trying_ to piss them off?"

Azelma doesn't answer straight away. When she does, it's in a low voice. "We're leaving," she says. "What does it matter?"

"It _matters_ because they'll be crosser now," Eponine hisses. "They'll be watching us—they won't let us leave as easily—"

Footsteps.

"Azelma, go," Eponine says. "Out the back. I'll say you went up. If you go now, he might forget—"

"He'll just use you instead—"

But Eponine already has her hands on her shoulders, is pushing her out the door, and Azelma, for all her brave talk, doesn't fight back too hard, and Eponine really doesn't mind, can't blame her—

By the time Monsieur Thénardier appears in the kitchen, the door is latched behind Azelma, and Eponine is alone, just beginning to peel the carrots.

"Where is she?" her father demands.

Eponine knows this game. "Who?" she asks, cocks her head to the side.

He scowls. "Don't play at stupid. You're too dumb to make it believable."

"I don't know who you're talking about," Eponine says, face blank. "I guess I must be particularly stupid tonight."

His eyes flick toward the door, back at her. "Did she go that way?"

Eponine frowns, puts the knife down. "The door is latched. I don't see how she could have."

He rubs his hands together, contemplates his decisions for a moment.

Eponine waits, hands pressing into the countertop.

"This is your fault," he decides, gaze settling, predator-like.

She lowers her head.

 

* * *

 

Saturday morning comes too soon, but it comes nonetheless. Grantaire clings, just a little, before they get out of bed, and it's childish, he knows, but he can't help himself.

They have breakfast together, and it's quiet. Enjolras keeps looking like he wants to say something, but he doesn't say it. Instead, he wordlessly passes the plate of eggs across the table. Grantaire takes it, gives a strained smile. 

At midmorning, the doorbells rings.

"That'll be Combeferre," Enjolras says, stands up from the table.

Grantaire stands with him, grabs him by the wrist before he can go too far; Enjolras doesn't seem surprised. Grantaire doesn't move a muscle, just holds him there for a moment.

The doorbell sounds again, Enjolras goes, and the words stay unspoken. But that's okay, because they don't need to be said.

Grantaire leans back against the table, tries to pull himself together before Enjolras comes back.

It's Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and Grantaire listens as they speak in low voices in the living room. Then Enjolras reappears in the kitchen, alone. "R," he says.

"Apollo," Grantaire says.

"Come on." Enjolras gestures toward the living room. "Combeferre and Courfeyrac are here."

Grantaire pushes off the table, reluctantly, and follows him into the living room. Courfeyrac and Combeferre are waiting, standing somewhat awkwardly in the living room. Grantaire goes to lean against the far wall, because he wants no part in this.

Combeferre glances up, takes note of him. His brow furrows, then he says something to Courfeyrac and comes over to Grantaire. He leans against the wall beside him, then waits.

Grantaire just sighs, decides not to fight him. "This is a bad idea," he says, low enough that the other two can't hear.

"So you say," Combeferre replies. He folds his arms casually over his chest now.

"They'll arrest him," Grantaire tries again.

Combeferre lifts an eyebrow. "You don't believe he can talk himself out of this?"

Grantaire doesn't answer that. "Why does it have to be him?" he counters.

Combeferre's response comes just a beat too late. "You think I wouldn't take his place in a heartbeat?"

Grantaire sighs, because he should have known that Combeferre would have figured it out too. "I didn't mean—"

"I know," Combeferre interrupts. "Courf has been trying to talk him out of it. Actually, Courf is probably ever-so-subtly reminding him that this is a terrible idea right now."

Grantaire picks up on the missing part of that sentence. "What about you?" he asks. "Do you condone this then?"

Combeferre shifts, brings his arms up across his chest like he's thinking hard about his answer. "I want to say no," he finally says. "But I ultimately think Enjolras is the best man for the job."

So Grantaire sighs again. "Of course you do." But he doesn't say it with any real sense of vitriol; it's too late for that.

They stand in slightly awkward silence for a moment.

"You didn't answer my question," Combeferre points out.

But Grantaire shakes his head. He has no doubts about Enjolras's ability to talk himself into or out of anywhere."I don't believe the cops will give him a chance to try."

Combeferre nods, and it's a slow movement. "We'll have to hope they do, then."

And Grantaire sighs again, because _that's not all that reassuring_ , but Combeferre moves to join the other two, and the conversation is effectively over.


	5. Part IV

Eponine still doesn't tell Gavroche, not trusting that he won't inadvertently let something slip to their parents, so she packs his bag for him while he isn't in the room. Azelma is packing too, but her bag is over-stuffed.

"You can't take everything," Eponine reminds her, shifts her shoulder back and forth; it's still sore.

Azelma, distracted, frowns at her bag. "I don't get it," she says. "I don't get it. I don't have that much _stuff_ —"

Eponine doesn't point out that she has far more than she does, than Gavroche does. Their mother likes her best, for some unknowable reason, shows it by material means; their father, on the other hand, loathes them each equally. "Essentials," she replies, only a little curt. Then she softens, because it's not Azelma's fault she's lucky. "There's extra space in my bag, if you need it."

Azelma goes bright red. "I'll be okay," she says, eyes down.

"Did you see where Gav left his other sneaker?" Eponine asks, peering under his bed. It's not there. She straightens back up, waits until Azelma looks at her. "And, really, it's fine. If you need it, use it."

Azelma smiles at her, just a little. "Thank you," she says. And Eponine knows she doesn't just mean for letting her shove an extra shirt or two into her bag. "And, no, I've got no idea where that boy leaves anything. Knowing him, he's probably wearing one sneaker and one bare foot." Eponine sighs. "I'll keep looking, I guess."

 

* * *

 

Enjolras takes a cab to the police station. The streets are backed up because it's the middle of rush hour, and the cabbie insists upon making small talk. That, as it is want to do with Enjolras, becomes a heated conversation about the merits of a republic. This then leads the cabbie to become so infuriated with Enjolras's naiveté that he grinds the cab to a halt and turns off the meter.

Enjolras doesn't notice the sudden lack of movement. "…so long as the people _elect_ the representative," he's saying, "and if that's who they want, that's okay. They have the _right_ to elect an idiot. I'm not saying they _should_ elect an idiot, don't get me wrong, but they should be _allowed_ —"

The cabbie sighs, interrupting him.

Enjolras peers out the window. "Isn't the police station—"

The cabbie rolls his eyes. " 'Bout a mile down that way a piece. It's been good chattin' with you, kid. Good to know the world still has youngins in it. But bless me, I can't listen to another word outta your mouth." He jabs his thumb toward the door. "Pay up, get out."

So Enjolras does.

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, Grantaire sits in the living room with Combeferre and Courfeyrac. They're on the couch, and he's on the chair. Courfeyrac keeps trying to make conversation, and Combeferre keeps trying to indulge him, but Grantaire can't even be bothered to make the effort.

 

* * *

 

It's just shy of three o'clock, and their parents are still downstairs entertaining—distracted for the foreseeable future. Eponine looks at Azelma, who looks back at her. This is their opportunity, and they both know it.

"He said he'd be back by four," Azelma says, her face screwed up in worry.

Eponine sighs, peers out the window. "For fuck's _sake_ , Gav…" she mutters.

They wait another ten minutes, then Eponine stands up. "C'mon," she tells Azelma. "We can't stay any more."

Azelma goes pale, but she stands. "Epo _nine_."

"He'll be on his way here," Eponine says. "We'll intersect him." She gestures toward the window. "You first."

"Are you sure?" Azelma asks, eyes wide.

Eponine nods. " 'Course I'm sure," she answers, praying it's true. "We need to go."

But Azelma still hesitates.

" _Azelma Thénardier_ ," Eponine growls. "Out the window. Now." She's got three years on Azelma, and Azelma wants to be convinced.

So she goes. Her boots clank against the gutter on her way down, and Eponine winces, checks over her shoulder. No sound from the stairwell.

"Now you," Azelma hisses from below.

Eponine turns back to the window, takes in a breath, hoists her bag over one shoulder and Gavroche's over the other…and leaves.

She hits the ground harder than usual, but she's not focused enough to expect perfection.

"Which way?" Azelma asks.

"This way," Eponine answers, pulling her along by the forearm.

Four blocks later, they run into Gavroche.

" _Gav_ ," Azelma cries out, hurrying to him.

He's taken aback by her hug, but he doesn't protest. He peeks out from under her arm at Eponine. "Why do you have my backpack?" he demands.

She pulls it off her shoulder, offers it to him with a smile. "We're leaving," she tell him. "And so are you."

His eyes go wide. "What the fuck," he mouths.

" _Language_ ," Eponine chides him. She urges them both along, getting them all moving again.

"For real?" he asks, still shocked and stumbling slightly.

"For real," Eponine confirms.

"Right now?" he checks.

"Right now." Eponine's smile widens. "Whadaya think, Gav? You in?"

He _beams_ at her. "I'm in."

They arrive at the mall only a few minutes late. The officer Eponine met last time is waiting at the main entrance.

"Hello," she greets him, not even caring that she's supposed to be cautious. They did it. They're out.

He nods at Azelma and Gavroche. "These are your packages?" he checks.

She's got a hand on each of them, protective. "They are."

He pushes off the wall, gestures for them to follow him. "The car is this way."

And it's too easy, Eponine realizes. It's too easy.

Her grip on her siblings goes tight. They stop, give her questioning looks. But she's not looking at them. Her gaze is roving the parking lot.

The policeman doesn't notice that they've stopped for a moment and keeps walking. When he does notice, he's as confused as Azelma's and Gavroche's. "We need to keep moving," he tells her, voice pitched low. "My partner is in the car."

"It's too easy," she murmurs. "It's all been so easy," she realizes. Her heart is thrumming in her chest. She's terrified, suddenly. And she's scaring her siblings now. Azelma is working to hide it, but Gavroche doesn't know to—can't.

She closes her mouth. Swallows. Looks her siblings in the eye, one at a time. "Sorry," she says, moving them forward again. "Just nerves. 'Spose they just don't care, you know?"

They look reassured, glad to be moving, but she makes eye contact with the policeman, shakes her head just a little.

He's more alert than he was before.

They get to the car. She gets Azelma and Gavroche inside, gives the parking lot one last look over. The engine starts.

"Ep, c'mon," Gavroche says from inside, tugging at her. "Get in."

She spots them then. Madame and Monsieur Thénardier, watching from the parking lot entrance. They're standing outside their own car. Something black glints in her father's hand.

She gets in the car.

"They're here," she tells the officers in front. "Armed, I think, too."

Gavroche starts to cry, quietly, and she pulls him close. "We're going to be okay," she tells him.

Azelma reaches across Gavroche and grabs her hand. Eponine gives it a squeeze, makes it a promise. "I promise you both. We're going to be okay."

The policeman who fetched them is in the passenger seat, speaking into the radio, but he takes a moment, turns around to face the three of them. "My name is Javert," he says, and his eyes are kind. "I'm not supposed to tell you that." His face is tense, but his smile is kind. "But I trust you, because you trust me. We're going to get you three out of this, okay?"

Gavroche just holds on tighter, tears wetting Eponine's sweatshirt. "Thank you," she tells the officer, tightens her grip on Azelma. "Thank you both."

 

* * *

 

Enjolras walks into the police station stiffly, suddenly nervous. The door closes behind him with a _thunk_ , and he approaches the woman at the front desk.

"May I help you?" she asks, looking up at him from behind her computer screen.

He nods, tries not to look nervous. "I'm here to speak with Chief Madeleine."

The woman blinks at him. "Do you have an appointment?" she asks.

"No," Enjolras answers. "But he'll want to see me. I have…information for him."

She purses her lips. "Would you like to provide a tip?"

"Not exactly," Enjolras says. He licks his lips, lowers his voice. "I have information about one of his men."

She looks at him, face as blank as a slate. "I'm sure one of our other officers would be more than happy to assist you—"

"It has to be him," Enjolras interrupts, then immediately flushes bright red. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"I take it that this is urgent?" the woman asks.

Enjolras nods. "One of his men isn't who he says he is."

She glances around, and Enjolras realizes how empty the station is. "It's a slow day," she tells him, standing. "Let me see if he's available."

"Thank you," he says.

"Wait here," she answers. With that, she goes through the door behind the desk.

The other receptionist eyes him suspiciously, so he goes to one of the chairs, takes a seat. He pretends to be interested in something on his phone, scrolls aimlessly while he waits.

He waits for what feels like a very, very long time.

 

* * *

 

Courfeyrac pulled out his phone somewhere along the line, is pretending to watch stupid videos now.

Combeferre is tense, doesn't bother to hide it.

Grantaire would get a drink, but then he'd have to leave the room, and he wouldn't be able to bear missing a second.

They've all given up on conversation.

 

* * *

 

Finally, the woman returns. Her gold nametag has _Fantine_ printed across it in black embossed letters. "Chief Madeleine will see you," she tells him. "Come with me."

He stands, somewhat surprised. He hadn't expected it to be so easy to get to the police chief.

She leads him around the desk, down a hallway, and around a corner where they come to a nondescript door in the middle of the hallway. No corner office for this Chief. She knocks, pokes her head in. "Sir?" she asks.

And she must get some sign of assent, because the next thing he knows, Enjolras is shaking Chief Madeleine's hand and introducing himself.

Madeleine seems wary, but he gestures for Enjolras to take a seat. He leans forward on his desk, elbows propping himself up so that they're at eye level. "What do you have?" he asks.

"A video," Enjolras answers, too taken aback not to be direct. "Sir," he tacks on.

"A video," Madeleine repeats. He pauses, considers this. "I see."

"It speaks for itself," Enjolras goes on, not sure what else to say.

Madeleine looks at him. "I'm sure it does," he says. "You said you're called Enjolras?" he asks.

Enjolras nods.

"You have a record, yes?" Madeleine checks. "And a warrant out, if I'm not mistaken. Something about an aggravated assault?"

Enjolras swallows. "Yes, sir. But I'm not here—"

"So I suppose you want to clear your warrant in exchange for the video?" His hand goes to his chin, rubs at the white whiskers there. He takes another moment, thinking something through. "That's a risky game. Blackmailing me, like that."

For a moment, Enjolras doesn't say a word. "Sir, that was never my intention—"

"Wasn't it?" Madeleine asks, and he seems almost amused. "Very well."

Enjolras doesn't know what to do with the conversation where it is. "Would you like to see the video?" he offers. "I have it, here on a jump drive."

Madeleine glances down at it. "No," he says, voice firm. "I have no need to see anything from that time."

"That time?" Enjolras echoes, confused. "Sir, this was only a few days ago. I don't—"

His eyes snap to Enjolras's face. "A few _days_ ago?" he repeats.

Enjolras frowns, more confused now than he was before. "Y—yes, sir. Thursday afternoon." He clears his throat. "I was out with some friends. We witnessed one of your men meeting with a known criminal."

Madeleine's eyes narrow, like he's working something out in his mind. When he's finished, he leans back into his chair. "Well," he says. "That changes things. Show me."

 

* * *

 

Courfeyrac elbows Combeferre. "Do you think he knows Enjolras is going to be okay?" he asks, whispering, though there isn't any point.

Combeferre swats at him. " _Shh_ ," he hisses, tosses a pointed glance at Grantaire.

Grantaire isn't listening anymore. Just sitting in the chair, staring at his fingers where they rest in his lap.

 

* * *

 

Madeleine is looking at him, an appreciation in his expression that Enjolras can't explain.

Enjolras waits for him to say something.

"What you have there," Madeleine finally says slowly, "is not what you believe it to be."

Enjolras waits some more. When it becomes apparent that Madeleine isn't going to say anything more, he speaks. "What is it then?"

Madeleine lets out a breath, leans back into his chair. "I've read your file, you know," he says. "You're a good kid. A little brash, a little naive—"

Enjolras bristles.

"—and more than a little radical." Madeleine winks at him. "You remind me of a lot of the younger ones here, actually. Maybe even myself, in a different life."

Enjolras doesn't know what to say to that.

"What I'm saying is," Madeleine continues, "you're not a bad person, Enjolras." He pauses. "I would like very much to tell you what you have, because I know that it will be very difficult for you to accept this otherwise, but this video is utterly valueless in terms of blackmail. In fact, its existence actually puts the wellbeing of these two individuals at great risk—"

"I don't understand," Enjolras interrupts, then catches himself.

Something in Madeleine's eye twinkles. "But," he goes on, "this is as much as I can tell you." Madeleine looks him directly in the eye. "Do you understand why I can't give you any information about this?"

Enjolras thinks it over, considers it. _Fuck._ "Fuck," he says aloud. "It was some sort of operation, wasn't it? He was _pretending_ —was he was _undercover?_ —oh, _fuck_ —to get _information_ from them, oh, _fuck—_ "

Madeleine laughs, a short, aborted laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. He lets Enjolras fill in the gaps himself, imperfectly, because it's better that way. "I'm sorry this wasn't the corruption scandal you anticipated."

Then Enjolras realizes where he is. That he has no way out. Nothing at all. "Are you going to arrest me?"

Madeleine considers him, and the moment stretches out. "Keep yourself on the straight 'n narrow, all right? You're covered under squealer laws—you head of them?" Seeing his blank look, he explains. "They protect people providing information, even if those people have a warrant out on them." Another wink. "We'll take that jump drive though."

Enjolras doesn't say anything, just hands him the drive.

"Are there other copies of this?" Madeleine asks, handling the drive gingerly.

Enjolras shakes his head. "No, sir."

Madeleine waits.

"I'll delete the one on my phone," Enjolras adds. "And remove it from the cloud."

Madeleine nods, looks rather pleased with him. "Please do," he says. "I would hate to have to ask again."

Enjolras swallows, nods. "Thank you, sir."

Madeleine smiles, and it crinkles his eyes. "Have a good day."

So Enjolras leaves. Walks out the front door. Free.

And a little disappointed.

 

* * *

 

The driver is tense; Javert tries to hide it, but he is too.

Eponine holds on to Azelma and Gavroche and holds her breath.

Supposedly, the people Javert is communicating with are in the cars around them, but Eponine can't see through the windows, can't verify that to be true. What she can see is her parents' car, not gaining on them, but not falling behind either.

"They're following us," Azelma murmurs, watching them too.

Eponine puts on a tight smile. "We'll lose them."

Gavroche pulls away from her, looks her in the eye. "Won't they know where we go if they keep following us?"

This time, it's Javert's partner who answers. "We're not heading to our destination yet. Just driving in circles until we can lose them," he assures Gavroche. "Nowhere for them to follow us to, see?"

Gavroche relaxes, just a little, then asks, "Where are we going?"

Azelma looks at Eponine, eyes wide, realizing.

Eponine's smile gets tighter. She kisses his head, hides the water in her eyes. She looks at Azelma over his head, catches her gaze. Azelma knows, understands.

Azelma reaches out, taps him on the shoulder. "Gav," she says, "c'mere."

Gavroche goes, confused.

They come to a red light. The mood darkens.

Eponine talks through the silence. "You and Azelma are going to go to a family," she tells him, keeping her voice steady. "A mother and a father, and they have a dog. I said that would be okay, because neither of you have allergies. And, Gav, you've always wanted a dog. So that'll be good. They're going to keep you safe, love you—they're a proper family."

The light turns, and the car starts moving again.

Gavroche frowns. "I don't want another family," he says. "Families suck."

Eponine bites her lip, watches her parents' car through the rearview. "No, they don't," she tells him. "They're not all like ours. Ours sucks, sure. Definitely. But this one will take real good care of you guys. You'll go to school. They'll get you toys—nice clothes." She puts on the brightest smile she can manage, given they're only ahead by four car lengths now.

Tears begin to roll down Azelma's cheeks.

"Wait," says Gavroche, and Eponine's heart drops into her lap as she watches the realization flicker across his features. "You keep saying _you_ —" He wrestles away from Azelma, bolts back across the seat, clings on tight—

"Gav," Eponine says, puts her arms around him. "I'm too old. I've aged out of the foster system—"

"You have to stay—"

"I can't, Gav, you know that. We talked about this the day I aged out—"

"I don't care. You have to stay with us."

She looks at Azelma, for once at a loss as to how to comfort him, but Azelma is crying too.

"Where will you go?" Gavroche whimpers.

Eponine looks between his tousled head, Azelma's restrained pain, and the stoic faces of the police officers. "I won't be far. I'll visit every chance I get."

Javert clears his throat. "I hate to interrupt," he says, "but I've had a thought."

His partner adjusts his grip on the wheel.

Eponine refocuses on the situation at hand, but she doesn't loosen her hold on Gavroche. "Yes?"

"You said," Javert goes on, "when you got in the car…You said they were armed?"

Eponine swallows. "Yes," she says again. "My father was holding one of his guns, I think. Why?"

His partner doesn't show his reaction, but it's clear he has one.

Javert looks pleased. "Do you happen to know if your father has a permit for a firearm?"

"I don't think so," Eponine answers.

"Thank you," Javert says. He repeats their conversation into the radio, and a moment later, a white sedan behind their parents' car lights up red and blue, sirens wailing. A moment later, another follows suit. Three, in total, converge on their parents' car.

Azelma cranes her head to watch. "What's going on?" she asks.

"We now have probable cause," Javert answers. "Our team will take care of things."

Gavroche peeks out from under Eponine's arm, awestruck. "Are you going to arrest them?" he asks the officers.

"If it's called for," Javert answers.

 

* * *

 

Grantaire doesn't let him get through the door before he's on him. "Enjolras," he breathes into his neck.

Enjolras's arms go around him, and he holds on. Over his head, he watches Combeferre and Courfeyrac approach more slowly.

Grantaire moves so that they're standing side by side—still touching, always touching—and Combeferre and Courfeyrac hug him too.

"Squealer laws," Enjolras says to Courfeyrac. "Why the hell didn't you mention—"

Courfeyrac's eyes go wide as he recalls the ending of the conversation. "I am an idiot," he says. "I need to drop out of law school immediately—"

But Enjolras just shakes his head, squeezes Grantaire tighter. "Don't worry about it," he says to Courfeyrac. Then his gaze falls on Combeferre, and something passes between them.

Grantaire gets an uneasy feeling, but he pushes it aside. "I'm glad you're back. That's the main thing."

That draws Enjolras's gaze, refocuses his attention. "Yes," he says. "I am."

And Courfeyrac gestures pointedly toward the kitchen. "Should we, you know, celebrate?"

Combeferre frowns. "I don't—what is there to celebrate? The video was a total bust, and Enjolras didn't—"

Grantaire cuts him off. "We can celebrate the fact that he _didn't_ make your fucking statement, how's that?"

Courfeyrac doesn't seem as lost as he should be, but he nods anyway. "Do you still have that good stuff from last time? The one in the purple bottle? Because that was excellent."

"In the cabinet over the stove, in the back," Grantaire answers promptly.

Enjolras hasn't looked away.

"What?" Grantaire asks, softly.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre head to the kitchen, leaving them more or less alone.

But Enjolras just keeps looking. "Nothing," he finally says, and it's clear it's not nothing.

So Grantaire waits.

"Just—" A small smile creeps across Enjolras's lips. "I'm glad I'm back, is all."

Grantaire grins.

 

* * *

 

After the next meeting, they get drunk, just for the hell of it.

Grantaire stumbles over to the couch, falls down beside Enjolras, who's fumbling with the remote, curls around him like an octopus. "Apollo," he mumbles into his neck, "it's getting dark outside. Your light is going out."

Enjolras groans, puts his arm around him; Grantaire is further gone than he is, but not by much. "That was bad. That was very, very bad." He feels Grantaire grin against his collarbone.

"Here's another one." The words are only mildly slurred. "Why were Santa's elves so depressed?"

"Why?" Enjolras asks.

Grantaire chuckles, laughing at the answer before he's given it. "They had low elf-esteem," he says.

Enjolras sighs, tightens his hold. "That was terrible," he says. Then he adds, "I love you," because he does.

"Same, fam," Grantaire replies. "Love you too."


	6. Epilogue

The Thénardier parents will likely end up behind bars, not only for the unregistered firearm, but also for the theft, money-laundering, and other below-table business that took place in their basement; it's still a matter of paperwork though. But, if nothing else, there's no contact permitted between them and their children for the foreseeable future, which leaves the younger two safely in the hands of a novice set of foster parents: the Buchanans.

It takes Gavroche five weeks to stop clinging to Eponine when she leaves, but Wilma and Douglass, as the foster parents have asked to be called, gradually grow into something akin to proper parents for him; for all his talk about not wanting another family, he takes to it easily. Azelma takes longer to trust, to find her place, being older, and she'll probably never be able to call them her parents, but she's happy with them. They both are.

And Eponine visits, just like she promised. Every couple of days, at first, then every week, weaning them as much as she's weaning herself; she agreed with the parents that it was for the best. Her siblings have to acclimate, go to school, make friends, and they do. They manage beautifully, bringing stories of their schoolyard escapades to their get-togethers.

For her own part, she has to get a job, and she does. It's hard to find a place that will take her without a high school degree, but she manages to find a mending shop, run by a kind old woman who's after company more than real help, but she's kind as can be and doesn't care what sort of education Eponine has.

It's hard, and they've got a long way yet to go, but they're happy.

 

* * *

 

One of the nights Eponine visits, while Gavroche is "walking" her the four feet to her car, he says, "There's a rally tomorrow afternoon, and I know you don't have to work."

Eponine frowns at him. "You're still going to those meetings?"

And Gavroche just looks proud, so she sighs, leans against her car (newly purchased, though not itself new) so that's she's more or less the same height as him, and says, "You know those are more meant for…not you, right?"

"Yeah," he says, "but they're fun."

She hesitates. "What's the rally for?"

"All sorts of stuff," Gavroche answers. "Like, Enjolras is talking about voting. And someone from PETA is coming, and—"

"Gav," Eponine cuts him off. "That doesn't sound like a rally. That sounds like a bunch of angry people getting together to shout."

He shrugs.

"Does it have a permit?" she asks.

He shrugs again, teeth peeking out of his mouth. "Dunno."

Her hearts sinks. "Gav…"

"Plus," he goes on, "Marius is gonna be there. He's been asking about you because you disappeared."

She's not surprised he knows, or figured it out, or—She freezes. "You didn't tell him anything, did you?"

He rolls his eyes, true pre-teenagerdom finally settling in. "Of _course_ not, Ep. I'm not _stupid_."

She breathes out.

"So will you come?" he asks, eyes wide and round and pleading.

Eponine sighs, because she doesn't want him involved with them, but she doesn't want him involved with them unattended even more. And it wouldn't hurt to see Marius, just one more time… "I'll come," she tells him. "But only if you promise to stay with me. All the time."

And that's that.

 

* * *

 

During the speech just prior to Enjolras's, things get rowdier than anticipated.

One person gets upset.

Another gets angry.

Someone throws a punch.

Someone else calls the cops.

The casual onlookers get the message and scatter, but the Amis, already in the crowd proper, end up in the middle of it.

Eponine and Gavroche get separated amidst the melee. Eponine is arrested first. Then, when she shrieks after Gavroche, they take him too.

Courfeyrac falls next, trying to get to Combeferre—to warn him.

Gradually, the police bring order to the street. The din begins to die down, but the police don't leave.

Grantaire watches in horror as Enjolras continues shouting, keeps shouting something Grantaire can't hear at a person he can't see.

A moment later, Grantaire watches them wrestle Enjolras, still shouting, into a van.


End file.
